


The American Nightmare

by oisiflaneur



Category: American Mary (2012), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oisiflaneur/pseuds/oisiflaneur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Will is still recovering from a figurative and literal gutting, Jack decides that he needs some space, a change of scenery -- anything except chasing after Hannibal immediately. Disappearances and a rash of strange activity in Seattle should be enough to keep him occupied.</p><p>Of course, things are never that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Make Sure They Deserve It

**Author's Note:**

> I've been itching to write a crossover clusterfuck for ages now, so this is really long overdue! ... But I sure didn't think this combination was going to be the introduction. The timeline is divergent from American Mary somewhere near the end of the movie; for the Hannibal crew, it’s a few months after the season two finale. Please be warned that this means there are references to “past” events that are definitely spoilers! Also please note that this fic has the following **content warnings:** alcohol and drugs, discussion of past abuse and assault, fairly graphic descriptions of violence, threats of medical torture, foul language and such, and all around canon typical levels of debauchery.
> 
> my general writing tag is [here](http://oisiflaneur.tumblr.com/tagged/graywrites) for drabbles etc!

“You seem a little _stressed_. Maybe I can help with that. Have you ever tried acupuncture before?” She smiles, tightly, and it doesn’t manage to reach her eyes. “Not that I’m trained in holistic medicine, in any capacity. But how hard can it be? I’m _only_ stabbing your nervous system with pressurized steel.” Mary’s pitch is high and her tone flippant, leaning her elbows on the edge of the operating table. Her current patient is, understandably, less at ease.

Will’s eyes don’t go wide: he doesn’t buck in the restraints, but his breath starts to come faster, pumping his lungs up and down, expanding and collapsing his chest like bellows. She would never admit this (who would she admit it to?), but she sort of likes it when they’re scared. “I would… I would _really_ rather you not. I’m very relaxed. I would really rather you let me go ho--”

“Nice try.” Mary pulls at the cuff of her glove dramatically, letting the nitrile snap down against the her wrist, bare about sleeve of her scrubs. Tilting her head to smile at him, she makes sure to peer down her nose, eyes lidded. “I went through your pockets, Mister Graham. No badge, but FBI files? Still classified, on top of that?”

“I’m…” He takes a moment think about it, to wrestle with the words and try to describe his life from another perspective. ‘Dowdy professor pulled into a life of crimehunting’ probably sounds even less believable outside of his skull than inside it, and he swallows his reply.

Mary stands and, looking down at him, allows herself a laugh, a crooked smile taking over her mouth as she pulls the other glove on. “What exactly were you hoping for, here? What did you want to _achieve_?” 

Even through the chloroform and trussing, the busybody had never met her eyes. He still doesn’t, his pupils darting around the corners of the ceiling for something, _anything_ to focus on, other than her. Other than her and her tools of the trade. “Nothing! I was just-- I was outside and I heard something, I was just… just concerned--”

That earns a laugh, and she takes a languid stride towards the cupboards, relishing in the _click_ of her heels against the cold cement. The basement looks bare, but it’s well stocked. “You’re not the first _concerned citizen_ I’ve had to deal with.” 

His lungs still heaving, his head twists frantically as he looks around, but not at her. “Is that who that was? The man I saw?” Will still doesn’t meet her eyes, her gaze sliding over the instruments laid out on the tray beside him. He really, truly, does not like the look of the one on the far left. 

“What, doctor Grant?” She snorts, pulling her mask on with a _snap_ that somehow manages to sound as flat as her voice. Will notes, absently through his panic, that she doesn’t say _who_. “A former professor of mine. He’s been staying with me since… Well, since I left medical school.” There’s a pause while she adjusts the mask over her mouth, stalling while she thinks of how to best put it. The cotton hides her grim smile, but doesn’t muffle her words. “To... pursue other options.” 

Something seems to _click_ , something happens to Will, the fight going out of him like helium out of a balloon. Blinking slow, he licks his lips before he speaks again. “What did he do?”

Mary freezes in the middle of flashily disinfecting a scalpel. She doesn’t _need_ to disinfect it, of course -- she keeps her tools meticulously clean -- but she wanted to make a show of prepping for surgery, for her new audience. 

“Not important.” Her voice is icy, and when she turns to stare at her captive she finds that he’s actually making eye contact. His eyes aren’t blown wide anymore: in fact, Will seems oddly calm, almost serene, as she tastes the words against the roof of her mouth. “He got what was coming to him.” 

She’s about to shoot him her tight blank smile, and follow up with _just like you’re going to_ , when Will looks away again, sighing and closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, then. I didn’t know.” His gaze is fixed on the blade in her hand, “You can keep him.”

The silence seems to go on for an era, and Will is waiting for the blade to slide across his throat, opening his jugular if she’s in a rush, his windpipe if she wants a real show. The _clink_ of steel being set down on the tin tray again startles him into opening his eyes, staring at her with naked confusion.

“Just like that?” Her voice is openly suspicious, mouth drawn into a tight line. Mary squints, the bottom of her eyes crinkling as she turns away just slightly, to look at him sideways. This is _entirely_ too easy. “Why—“

Will lets out a laugh that’s utterly humorless, dry and harsh and echoing in the small lab. “I can think of at least one person whom I wouldn’t mind giving… _Similar treatment_ to. Or I could have just hired you.” What started as a laugh turns into a cough, and he closes his eyes in something akin to resignation. 

“So,” Tilting her head, Mary pulls the mask off and taps the side of her cheek, looking down at him from under her eyelashes. Voice high and lilting, she allows herself a fraction of a smile as she murmurs at him.“What did he do?” She parrots at her captive, raising an eyebrow.

The parallel, vague and new as it is, isn’t lost on him, and Will squirms on the table, still gasping. When he manages to craft his words into phrases, they’re still desperate and nonsensical, tainted by the adrenaline that hasn’t ebbed from his veins. “I’m only even on _this_ case because my damned supervisor thought I needed a break, sent me sniffing in the opposite direction, as a _distraction_ , wouldn’t let me try to track him myself, because he thinks, thinks I can’t _handle_ actually catching—“

“Whoa!” Something in Mary’s voice has shifted, her pitch lower and tone warmer. “Easy.” Of course, it might just be the smile, honeying her tone as she pats him condescendingly on the head. “If you’re going to get serious on me, I get the feeling you don’t want to be sober.” He still doesn’t seem to grasp how the situation has changed, even as she starts to unbuckle the straps at his wrists. “You like red wine, or what?”

Will doesn’t look at her as he sits up, instead staring at his hands, rubbing lightly at his carpals, one after the other. “As long as it’s served with beef,” he mumbles, presumably thinking that she can’t hear, “Or lamb.”

“What _else_ would it be served with?” She shoots him another glance from beneath her bangs, tidying up her instruments, now that it’s clear there’ll be no use for them until the next _properly_ scheduled appointment. 

He tries to ignore that his knees are still shaking as he rocks his weight onto his feet, trotting over to where she left his personal effects, piled on a chair. “Some people serve it with pig.”

“You mean pork.” Mary doesn’t really say it like it’s a question; she’s correcting him.

Her new guest just laughs again, and pulls a bottle of painkillers out of some subtly hidden pocket when he fetches his jacket.

* * *

“You _what?_ ” 

“Punched him.” Will takes a generous sip -- most people would call it a gulp -- of wine and sets his glass back down. He’s used to stronger stuff, but he doesn’t want to be rude by asking, since his new friend doesn’t seem to be much of a drinker herself. She only poured herself a splash, and barely touched it since. Contrarily, Will has finished two glasses -- now two and a half. “And I kept punching him, until he stopped moving.”

“Jesus.” Mary sounds more amused than truly offended. She shakes her head, reaching between them to refresh his glass without being prompted, tipping the bottle smoothly. “And what did this have to do with tomorrow’s client?” She’d been telling him about another kid who’d seen Sprague on television, and now wanted to look like a bipedal chameleon. 

Will laughs, drily, taking another sip. He doesn’t particularly like the case in question, or the memories it recalls. “He didn’t modify himself, as such, but he certainly wanted to. He built a suit instead, it let him... Let him run, and claw, and rip, in ways that a normal human couldn’t.” He allows himself a sigh as he puts the glass down with a clink. “He didn’t want to be human, he wanted to be a predator.” 

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” Her voice is suddenly low and flat, and Mary studies his face as she drawls. Even though he won’t meet her eyes for more than an instant, fixing his gaze on the bricabrac on the table or out the window, she keeps staring at him, ready to make eye contact when he is.

“True enough.” Something about her tone incites Will to take another swig. “Anyway, he got his wish, in the end.” Another short pause, and he takes the opportunity to slip another small sip, leaving the glass nearly empty. “Mmmmm. Sort of. Nowhere near as professional as your work, I’m sure...”

“That would be why I’m the professional.” Mary seems back to baseline; _normal_ seems like the wrong word, somehow. She talks about violence and vengeance the way most people chat about new film releases, but at least the smile reaches her eyes again. “So, what did _he_ do to deserve it?” 

Will clenches his jaw, feeling his blood start to run hotter as he thinks about the limp Buster had for weeks. When he’s drained the glass, his own tone has dipped low and dangerous, and he looks at Mary — really _looks_ at her, properly for the first time since climbing off of her operating table -- and mumbles. “He hurt one of my dogs.” 

A low whistle is her initial response, shaking her head again as she leans to fill his glass, emptying the bottle before standing to take it to the kitchen for disposal. “I take it you want to crack open another?” 

Half a litre in an hour or less makes Will bold, and his tongue loose. “There’s a few things I’d like to crack open, but that’ll do.”

He allows himself a smile when he hears her laugh in the kitchen. “I’m pretty well stocked these days, and only get to break it out for the fancy customers. I might as well indulge you, while you’re here.” There’s a curious expression on her face when she comes back, stepping carefully on the balls of her feet, as though being out of heels feels unnatural to her. “I have a good pinot noir I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

Will’s spin goes straight as he startles, blinking again and staring at her. “Then you might as well keep saving it,” He begins, something that might be mistaken for a smile on anyone else tugging at one side of his mouth. 

Mary’s smile is tight, but surprisingly genuine, as she puts the bottle down on the table and leaves the corkscrew by his hand. “It’s mine, so _I_ get to decide who deserves it. Got me?” 

After a moment, he bites his lip and reaches for the bottle opener, braver for what he’s already ingested. “Alright. Thank you, Mary.”

“I did the same, actually. Not with my fists.” There’s a long heartbeat, as Will takes the time to parse her words. Right. The previous topic: punching people to death. “He was a security guard. I took his baton.” 

Will sucks down a third of his glass without guilt, and lets out a cold, harsh laugh in the same way. “Well, then, he must have deserved it.”


	2. And Don't Waste a Second

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this chapter has anything that wasn't warned for in the last one, and this actually wraps up the core of this one! And, now that this minor sidestory is out of the way, I may actually get to work on the detectives and murderers crossover madness.

“He wanted to know who you were, where you lived--” 

When she wearily picks up, she’s expecting the chirpy soprano. What she isn’t expecting is the breathless tone, or the whimpering between words.

“I-I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t wanna tell. He forced me. He started to burn me. I’m… I’m so sorry, Mary...” Mary lets herself into her loft, her vision going blurry at the center with panic. The only way she knows that her heart hasn’t stopped is that it _hurts_ , pounding like a drumroll inside her ribcage, her pulse suddenly spiking. “Beatress? What’s—“

“Hey,” comes the voice, soft, from her living room. Mary drops the phone and spins, eyes wide and fight or flight reflexes at full throttle, but it’s just the same sight that’s greeted her on friday evenings for the past three weeks.

“Sorry, I did some tidying up for you.”

Will tends to sit with his hands on his knees, his knuckles twitching or clenching in reflection of his mental state. At the moment, they’re utterly still, palms flat and fingers limp over his kneecaps. It’s uncharacteristic, but that may have something to do with the other figure in the room, on the floor -- and with Will’s burgeoning black eye.

He’s hogtied thoroughly, if messily: the rope is twisted around his joints and ends in an anchor hitch around the leg of the very couch Will is sitting on. His wrists and ankles are uncomfortably close, his neck limp, and his mouth stuffed with what appears to be one of her shirts. 

He has his own shiner, and a cut across his face, and the edges of whatever cloth is between his teeth have been dotted with blood.

Mary manages not to drop the phone, rotating slowly on her heels as the scene sinks in. “… Ruby’s husband,” she murmurs, the pieces clicking into place.

Will looks at her from beneath the curls of his bangs and blinks once, slowly. “He said that he hurt your friend. I would have called 911, but I don’t know her address…”

Turning away from the two men, Mary regretfully hangs up on Beatress and dials the emergency line, letting the tension seep into her voice and dialling it up, silently calculating how concerned she has to sound in order to be taken seriously. She can almost hear the responder filing it as a domestic dispute before she shouts that he’s gone on a rampage and attacked a third party, attempted to kill her before running off.

“My boyfriend chased him away, but now he knows where I live, and he’s obviously unstable and willing to do anything!” She shouts shrilly for good measure, before hanging up with a click.

Will’s brow furrows, his hands still flat on his legs. “Boyfriend?” 

Rolling her eyes as she snaps the phone shut, Mary takes a slow step towards Mr. Realgirl. “ _You_ want to explain to the cops that you were supposed to arrest me?”

This time, it’s the man on the floor whose face twitches, his eyes darting between Mary and the ceiling, unable to roll over and look at Will. 

“That’s right,” Mary murmurs, taking a step over to him with a decisive _click_. “I’m not exactly your late wife’s _dermatologist_. Bloody Mary. Ring a bell?” 

The lack of understanding in his eyes brings a smile to her face, and she crosses her arms as she steps on the tender muscle groups of his neck. 

“Good. Then this will be a surprise.”

Will coughs into his fist, making her glance up, and toss the phone to him with a grunt. This is going to take some cleaning up. “And you: book yourself a flight back home while I deal with this one. There’s not much point in you sticking around once I bail.”

He stares at her for a long moment, struck dumb. “You’re leaving town? Your whole life is here, your studio, your clientbase—”

“And a trail of bodies that keeps getting longer. I’ll send my friends a mass email once I get settled in somewhere I can set up shop again.” Not that she had many, especially with Beatress gasping for breath while the ambulances drove there. “And the good thing about my clientbase?” 

Mary makes sure to smile down at the man on the floor.

“There are freaks all over America.”

Will pinches the bridge of his nose, rising to walk over to use her laptop without waiting for further invitation. “Fine, fine. I’ve outstayed my welcome here, anyway. But as for the bodies… What about doctor Grant?”

She turns and gives him her winning smile, tilting her head as she delivers a light kick to Mr. Realgirl’s ribs. “You have a boat, don’t you?”

“I didn’t _bring it on the plane_ , Mary.”

* * *

He manages to find one, anyway.

The sound is silent but for the quiet splash of Will’s oars, the cloudy night affording him almost complete darkness out on the water.

Well, and Grant’s muffled keening, but with his mouth sewn shut, he doesn’t get much volume. Negligible, just like the rest of him.

It probably would have been easier to drug him for this, Will thinks briefly as he hauls the squirming mass of scar tissue up in his arms. But, then, he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of knowing that Grant was still awake and aware when his lungs flood with saltwater. With no limbs and a cinderblock hooked to what’s left of his legs, Will feels secure that the noisy splash and stream of bubbles that pop up briefly are the last he’ll see of the good doctor.

He also feels secure in the knowledge that his dim, grim smile was the last thing that Grant saw before the lightless water closed around him.

* * *

“I hope you haven’t run into any trouble at work.”

Matthew had looked at him sidelong when the phone rang on a weekend, but the tension drained out of his shoulders somewhat when he realized that it wasn’t Jack trying to drag him away for another case. Will had only been gone for a week or so, but it seemed like time that Matthew was eager to make up for. 

But Will manages to wave him away, pacing into the kitchen to get some semblance of privacy, as well as pour himself a nightcap. “No, no, actually. I just told them that I won’t be able to solve anything else until I… Until I catch the last one.” He finishes, it sounding weak even to his ears. Will doesn’t know why he still doesn’t trust phones -- they aren’t hard to tap for the circles he runs with, but he’s not exactly interesting enough to spy on. Still, better safe than sorry, and he changes the subject swiftly. Safety _is_ the only reason, he insists to himself.

“Hey, how’re you settling in?”

Mary laughs, and he can hear a small peep in the background, and she makes a quiet cooing sound that is most certainly not directed at him. Over all of it is the cacophony of nearby city streets, so it doesn’t sound like she had to find a place in the suburbs.  
“Not too badly, all things considered. The movers didn’t even steal anything this time, I think that might be a first. Pity you can’t come up and help me unpa--”

Will doesn’t quite catch the rest, since while he was trying to piece together where she’d landed, Matthew had padded over unnoticed. Plucking the phone out of his hands and ignoring Will’s indignant bark, he pokes it to bring the screen to life and scowls when there’s no contact info or picture.

“Christ, Will, I got you a smartphone so you could join us in the modern century. Or is this just an extension of your dowdy professor persona?” Of course, he can’t know that Mary dumped her phone yesterday morning, before she even left Seattle. Will’s going to have to save this number, he realizes distractedly as he snatches the phone back from him and puts it to his ear again. “Sorry, I--”

“And who is that?” Mary’s voice is cold, suspicion creeping into her tone. She’s already skipped town once this week, she doesn’t want her location compromised immediately.

“I, uh… That’s my -- my roommate.” Will stammers, frowning petulantly as Matthew squawks his offense. “Look, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I should probably go walk the dogs.” 

All of a sudden she sounds amused again, and Will can just barely make out an exhale snorted under her breath. It may be the closest thing to a laugh he’s gotten out of her, and he doesn’t even know what he did. “Alright, professor. Go walk your dogs with your _roommate_.”

Even though Matthew can’t hear, Will’s face goes flushed, his mouth twitching while he tries to decide whether to be worried or amused right along with her. With the look on Matthew’s face, he opts for the former. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that. Sorry, Mary. Take care.”

“Sure. I’ll get in touch again when I have something interesting to say.”

“Virtually everything you say is interesting.” He supplies, ignoring the way Matthew rolls his eyes. “Stay safe, and let me know when or if I can visit again.” 

That gets a laugh, though it might be that she can hear Matthew yelp _again?_ with betrayal in the background. “You don’t strike me as much of a city boy, but sure. Let me know the next time a case takes you to New York.”

Will spends the rest of the night soothing Matthew’s ruffled feathers, but not before he makes him walk the dogs with him. The late spring air is pleasant enough, and he spends most of the stroll explaining how his last “case” had really gone. 

“So,” Matthew finally asks, when Will is finished and they approach the warm glow of the first storey lights left on, “What happened to the intruder?" His answer is a small smile and a sudden intense interest in cleaning underneath his fingernails, as Will opens the unlocked door. Matthew doesn't bother hiding his grin, trotting up behind him and launching into pestering him for details. He _does_ so love it when Will slips the leash.


End file.
